


When You Say Nothing At All

by bookspazz



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:44:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookspazz/pseuds/bookspazz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all had their own collections, whether it was tea sets, contracts, or books. They kept moments. A series of vignettes and images for the collections of a strange trio</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Say Nothing At All

They all had their own collections, whether it was tea sets, contracts, or books. Collecting meant something, holding on to things in a world where everything was far too impermanent, where people you kept close to your heart were gone from one day to the next.  
They all had a collection in common though, despite their differences. They kept moments.  
Belle collected smiles. There simply weren’t enough words to categorize them all, the simple action of spreading lips outwards.

Admittedly, she didn’t love all the smiles she saw. There had been too many frightening smiles in her past, smirks, sideways glances, and looks of determination that excited her as well as repelled her. Jefferson was the master of a sort of mad, mischievous smirk that made Belle want to shield Grace’s eyes and put Jefferson on a leash. Rumple’s wicked smiles were more subtle but possibly even more frightening except when they weren’t subtle at all and then it honestly made her want to run in the other direction. Sometimes they even shared an identical grin, all teeth, all sneer, behind which was a world of pain that made them all the more terrifying.

Thankfully, the two of them weren’t simply wicked smiles. Belle could accept that those malicious grins would never completely go away. She knew that they made their other smiles even more wonderful in comparison.

There were better smiles, bittersweet smiles like the smiles of memories, the look on Rumple’s face when Belle had pulled out Bae’s toy ball, the face Jefferson made on the day Grace had pointed out a toy rabbit in a shop window.

There were smiles of pure delight, like a child with a new play thing. Rumple didn’t smile that way very often, he would have claimed that he was too old and dusty (Belle disagreed with that completely). Jefferson on the other hand had started to smile that way a lot like when Grace challenged him to a game, or when Rumple suggested that he attempt to convince Belle to participate in some “harmless” scheme.

There were sad smiles, part joy, part sorrow, part disbelief, when Belle or Jefferson or both returned home after a fight and Rumple looked back at them as if he didn’t deserve it, could never deserve it, as if they’d ruined their own lives by staying in his. The sad smiles that appeared on Jefferson’s face when he remembered that for years he had known where Belle was and let her stay there, hurt her and hurt Rumple in the process, but then simultaneously remembered that they were all together now, sitting in the living room of Rumple’s large house, watching Belle read a story to Grace and Henry.

But Belle’s favorite, by far, were the soft smiles, the smiles caught off guard that came unheeded, unexpected, unhindered: Rumple’s smile as he watched Jefferson carry Grace around on his back, Jefferson’s smile when Belle burnt her hundredth attempt at using a toaster, Rumple’s smile when Jefferson managed to scoop both Belle and Grace up into a hug before all three of them toppled over, Jefferson’s smile as he watched Belle and Rumple dance in the living room, swaying to classical radio. For the times when the nights were darkest, when she found herself believing that perhaps the men she loved were just selfish for selfishness sake and could never really act for someone other than themselves, Belle kept those smiles. She kept them closest to her heart and pulled them out of her chest to watch them glow happily to themselves, to give herself that spark of hope that made her come back even when good sense told her to leave.

The prize of her collection came from a quiet day. She had gone out shopping with Red and returned with an armful of books she was adding to the library. She had walked into the living room to find Rumple and Jeff pouring over Henry’s story book, smiles already plastered on their faces, laughing to each other about adventures they’d had, schemes they’d hatched, all the ones which despite their previous record held happy endings. It had taken them a good minute or two until they noticed that Belle had walked in.  
They both looked up at her with almost identical smiles, smiles that couldn’t even be categorized, that were soft and ecstatic, simultaneously sad and mischievous but whose final effect was one of love, absolutely full to the brim with love that neither of them could have predicted and that neither of them planned on giving away.

Belle had dropped all her bags and run to the couch, dropping totally inelegantly into their laps, and pulling them close to her, reaching for kisses and embraces, only opening her eyes every so often to make sure those smiles were still there, those magnificent smiles she wished would never go away.

They all had their own collections, whether it was tea sets, contracts, or books. Collecting meant something, holding on to things in a world where everything was far too impermanent, where people you kept close to your heart were gone from one day to the next.  
They all had a collection in common though, despite their differences. They kept moments.

Jefferson collected touches. He collected the way they touched each other with their arms, with their lips, with their toes. They had all spent so long without being touched, it was a new sensation, everything from the way Jefferson had shaken Belle out of the asylum to the way Rumple had softly stroked her cheek with a promise.

Jefferson knew the effect of a strong powerful grasp, Grace jumping into his arms when he finally found her again, Belle’s hand firmly on his back on the day he let Rumple know just how much he cared. There was the firm clasp of Belle’s hand in his, the way they all held each other, all three of them, so tightly that it sometimes hurt, because they were so afraid and so accustomed to losing.

He cherished the skilled touches, like wielding a needle or spinning thread: Belle’s fingers running down his arm, Rumple threading his hands through Jefferson’s hair. Jefferson was fully aware that he was in a relationship full of people who knew the benefit of a power play, a carefully positioned act of trust that would make the other cooperate. Thankfully, they almost always used this power for good.

There were other touches that were more of a challenge to capture, more fun to memorize. There were hesitant touches, the handshake from Rumple when they finally met again after the curse was broken, Belle’s cautious hand on the door when Jefferson walked into her apartment for the first time, Belle’s cold toes brushing his leg on the first morning as she got up to get dressed, Rumple’s hand undoing Jefferson’s vest buttons.

But Jefferson’s favorite touches by far were the ones that came unbidden, instinctively. The heart called out and the body answered, letting the smallest of actions show the strongest of desires. Jefferson remembered the way Rumple had always reached out and put a hand on his shoulder during some of their earlier partnership, his fingers radiating a mixture of pride, friendship, and possession. There was the graze of fingers that came unbidden as he and Belle waited for Grace outside of school, Belle’s fingers bumping against his almost as if simply to make sure he was there, that he was still hers, that he wasn’t thinking of leaving.

His favorite moment he kept in a special place, on a pedestal, or perhaps it was a hat stand, in his mind. That was the day he asked Rumple if he and Grace could move into his house. Belle was still living in her apartment above the library but she had stopped by to bake a pie or maybe it was just to keep an eye on Rumplestiltskin. Jefferson was sitting with his legs up on the coffee table, casually peeling an orange. Rumple was at his spinning wheel and Belle had just walked in, wiping her flour covered hands on her apron.

“One of you could help me clean up, you know,” she said. They both moved to get up but she laughed and made a motion for them to sit down again. “I was kidding. She said, “and anyway Jeff, you shouldn’t bother with doing the housework anywhere unless you live there, at least that’s what my father always said.”

“Actually,” Jefferson said, trying to look as if he was concentrating very hard on peeling his orange, “I was wondering what might happen if Grace and I moved here.”

Rumple stopped spinning. Belle stopped wiping her hands and flew to where Jefferson was sitting, flinging her arms around him and landing on him, pulling him into one of the tightest hugs he’d ever experienced. When Belle finally let go, Jefferson found that Rumple had gotten up and was just standing a little ways away.

Jefferson looked anxiously at his once business partner turned something more. “I mean… if that would be all right with you obviously. I mean it is your house…” Jefferson moved to get up.

“It’s fine. If you need a home this one is yours for the taking.”

Jefferson grinned and got up, pulling Rumple into his arms. It was still a strange kind of hug, but Rumple didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he happily rested there until Jefferson let go, giving Belle her opportunity to kiss Rumple happily on the mouth in what Jefferson guessed was an act of thanks. But before moving away, Belle whispered something in Rumple’s ear that made him laugh and look over mischievously at Jefferson before taking his face in both hands and kissing him generously. From the depths of the kiss, Jefferson could feel Belle’s fingers intertwining with his, pressed against his side, happy skin on skin.

In moments like this, Jefferson thought he could happily stay for years with his eyes closed, just feeling the motions and muscles of two of the people he loved most, reading their skin and memorizing their thoughts, every nerve awake to the overwhelming feelings of love that reverberated through every pore and echoed in ever kiss, in every breath, in every grazing motion. He was coming home, really home, finally.

 

They all had their own collections, whether it was tea sets, contracts, or books. Collecting meant something, holding on to things in a world where everything was far too impermanent, where people you kept close to your heart were gone from one day to the next.  
They all had a collection in common though, despite their differences. They kept moments.

Rumplestiltskin collected eyes. Not literally of course though if anyone was going to have a pair of eyes somewhere in their possession it was him. There were certain emotions that showed best in a pair of fine eyes whether they were Belle’s (deep blue, large, and spellbinding) or Jefferson’s (equally blue, sometimes lost, sometimes dangerous).

Their eyes fascinated him, scared him sometimes, with how fragile they seemed to be. Belle’s eyes were made of porcelain and sometimes the way they looked like they were cracking tore his heart in half. That was the look he got when he went behind her back or against her will, in yet another ploy for power, after he took yet another deal with someone he knew couldn’t possibly pay. She would look at him, her jaw clenched in determination but her eyes were just as broken as he was. If there was anything that made him stop what he was doing, his search for more, it was that pair of eyes.

Jefferson never looked at him that way. But in some ways he had eyes that were worse, that glassed over and hardened when he was deep in thought, when Rumple tried to get him back on his side. Jefferson’s eyes were sometimes as lonely as the house where he had spent twenty eight years, isolated, frenzied, mad. The mad look in his eyes would creep in round the corners and he would be gone again, giving Belle’s porcelain irises another shake on their already wobbly foundations.

Rumplestiltskin didn’t like being frightened, didn’t like showing he was frightened. He had been called a coward too many times in his life to continue down that path. But those eyes scared him more than ogres and wars ever had. They looked like pain and stung like loss. After all the things he had ever lost, he was going to keep those eyes if it was the last thing he ever did.

But a collection isn’t complete without some variety. He kept the frightening eyes on a top shelf of memory, as far out of reach as possible. But there were other eyes he kept close, displayed in large glass cases where everyone could see them if they looked close enough.

He liked to keep the sad eyes. They weren’t the loveliest of course, but they were beautiful nonetheless, like the arc of a ballerina’s neck as she’s playing the dying swan princess. They were often accompanied with soft smiles like Belle’s eyes as she watched Rumple go through Bae’s clothes, still neatly folded in a room upstairs made just for him. There were the eyes of Jefferson as he watched Grace interact with the people who had been her parents for the last twenty eight years. It was even a pleasure to watch Jefferson’s eyes on Belle’s face, silently watching her face that he had let sit in a cell for years without knowing just how beautiful or dear it was.

Belle often told Rumplestiltskin that he had beautiful sad eyes too, that he should see the look on his face when he watched Grace play, or when he thought of something that he was certain Bae would like as a present if he could just get it to him. This made him laugh, mostly because Belle had managed to guess exactly what he was thinking, but partially because of all the joy that bubbled up inside of him at the thought that someone noticed.

On Rumple’s shelves were magnificent eyes of delightful surprise, bright like a cold winter day when the skies have cleared after a snowfall. There were Belle’s eyes, on the day he arrived at the library totally unannounced, hesitantly setting forth plans for a picnic much to the giggles of some of the children and Ruby who had been stopping by. There were Jefferson’s eyes on the day that Rumplestiltskin had found him to say thank you, thank you for being my friend all those years ago, thank you for bringing my Belle home to me, thank you. There were the delightful eyes of the both of them when Rumple kissed Jefferson for the first time. Rumple caught Belle’s eyes first but according to her, the look in Jefferson’s eyes before he closed them was priceless.

There were quiet, comfortable eyes, like Belle reading a book, like Jefferson brushing Grace’s hair. They always seemed to sport those half lidded eyes whenever he walked into the living room on a Friday afternoon, Jefferson’s arm around Belle, her legs tucked up on the couch, looking off into space at nothing in particular, glancing over occasionally at each other and then at Rumple when they noticed that he was there. He was almost sad to interrupt it at times, the way they looked so peaceful without his destructive nature anywhere nearby.

But then there were the warm eyes, the eyes that practically defied description except that perhaps they were full of love. Rumple hated to say that too soon just in case it wasn’t true. But trust, of course, was a thing he was learning. He knew it was love in Jefferson’s eyes when he said goodbye to Grace every morning before school. He knew it was love in Belle’s eyes when she spoke about a new book she had found or the look on a child’s face when she found the perfect book for them to read. So he supposed it must be love then, when the same eyes appeared on Belle’s face when she saw him at Granny’s just having a cup of coffee, when he saw those eyes on Jefferson one morning when he walked into the kitchen and found Rumple making pancakes.

Those were his favorite eyes, warm like autumn leaves and rooms full of breath and soft noises like the creak of a chair or the turn of a page. They were overwhelmingly sweet like hot syrup but softer than silk and even easier to swallow than water.

Rumple could have memorized those eyes backwards and forwards, particularly on one fall day when Belle and Jefferson appeared in his antique shop, cheeks rosy from the cold, eyes full of love as Belle giggled and watched Jefferson open the door overdramatically for her. Jefferson flipped the sign on the door smoothly to “Closed” as Belle skipped over to the counter. Rumple stood behind it almost nervously, leaning on his cane with an odd smile on his face.

“Hey.” He said.

Jefferson laughed and shook his head.

“We’re here to take you out for a walk.” Belle said, leaning on the counter with both hands.

“And we’re not taking no for an answer.” Jefferson added.

Rumple smiled, trying to drink in the crinkles at the corner of Jefferson’s eyes, and Belle’s playful eyes that were watching him full on as if she planned to catch him with her eyes alone.

“Yes, all right.” Rumple said, “Let me just get my coat.”

They both grinned and looked at each other, their eyes full of a light that was almost a rainbow of colors, almost magic visible in the air, then they looked back at Rumplestiltskin and that light was still there, as strong as it had been before. Rumple shrugged his coat on in a daze and Belle grabbed his hand, pulling him out the door as Jefferson held it open for them.

Belle immediately started talking about what a beautiful day it was and Jefferson said something snarky in return but his eyes spoke many less violent words. Rumple just nodded in agreement, trying to step in time to Belle’s laughter, trying to record the happiness in Jefferson’s eyes. There were many things that Rumple didn’t think he deserved in life and this was by far the greatest, to have two pairs of eyes fixed both him and on each other, resonating love like the vibrations of a cello.

So he saved the eyes on his shelves, on their pedestal and place of honor, saving them for the day when he might not have them again, treasuring their existence and hoping that Jefferson and Belle knew just how beautiful they were to him.

They all had their own collections, whether it was tea sets, contracts, or books. Collecting meant something, holding on to things in a world where everything was far too impermanent, where people you kept close to your heart were gone from one day to the next.  
They all had a collection in common though, despite their differences. They kept moments.

**Author's Note:**

> So no one writes for this ship then? Oookay. Cool. I'll do it myself but please feel free to join in.  
> The style is a bit rambley. My apologies :)


End file.
